Bound to my Enemy-Chapter 97.

When I finally come back home, it’s late. I stayed longer at my brother’s house than I planned we had lots and lots to discuss, I lowkey missed them and didn’t want leave them. I kept telling myself I would leave after the next conversation, after the next question, after the next moment of silence that felt too loaded to interrupt. Somehow, hours slipped through my fingers without me noticing

By the time I step out of the car, my body feels worn down to the bone. My head aches in that dull way that comes from crying back tears for too long. The house stands in front of me, tall and clean and cold, all glass and sharp lines, looking exactly the way it always does. Nothing about it hints at the mess sitting in my chest.

I unlock the door and step inside, locking it behind me out of habit.

I kick off my shoes and leave them where they land. My feet are sore, my legs feel weak, and all I want is to just lay down in bed somewhere dark and quiet and sleep.

I walk upstairs slowly, my hand brushing the wall as I go. Every step feels heavier than the last. My body remembers everything from today.

When I reach the bedroom door, I pause and I open the door.

The room is empty.

The bed is untouched on his side, no dip in the mattress, no jacket tossed over the chair, no quiet sign that he was here and just stepped out. The bathroom light is off. The room smells clean, faintly familiar, but there is no warmth lingering in the air.

I stand there longer than I mean to.

It’s not important, I tell myself almost immediately. He does not need to be here every night, I do not need him beside me to sleep. This is not that kind of marriage, it was never meant to be. Whatever has been happening between us lately does not change the facts.

I do not need him.

I repeat it in my head as if saying it enough times will make it stick. I don’t need his presence, I don’t need to be in his arms. I don’t need the weight of him behind me in bed or the quiet comfort of knowing someone else is breathing in the same space.

And still, something in my chest tightens.

Just a little.

The thought of sleeping alone tonight makes my throat feel thick and I hate that it does. I hate that my body reacts before my brain can shut it down. I hate that I have let myself get used to anything at all.

I push the feeling away and move. Standing still gives thoughts too much room to grow.

I head straight for the bathroom and turn on the shower. The sound of the water fills the space instantly, loud and steady, drowning out everything else. Steam starts to rise before I even step in. I undress without looking at myself, dropping my clothes in a careless pile on the floor.

The heat hits my skin and I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. My shoulders sag as the water runs down my back. I close my eyes and tilt my head forward, letting the water soak my hair and slide down my face.

For a few minutes, I just stand there.

No thinking. No remembering. Just the sensation of water and heat and the simple fact that I am still here. I wash slowly, deliberately. My movements are unhurried, almost careful, like I am trying not to break myself further. The scent of soap fills the air, grounding me in something familiar.

I rest my forehead against my arm and lean into the tiled wall. My reflection is hidden behind steam, and I am grateful for that. I do not want to see myself tonight. I do not want to see the exhaustion in my eyes or the strain I can feel pulling at my face.

When I finally turn off the water, the bathroom feels too quiet again. I dry off slowly, wrap the towel around myself, and go through the rest of my routine without thinking. Brush teeth. Wash face. Nothing fancy. Nothing extra.

Back in the bedroom, I change into something soft and loose. The bed feels bigger than usual as I pull back the covers and climb in. The sheets are cool on the other side. I adjust my pillow out of habit, then stop myself, annoyed that I noticed the empty space at all.

I reach over and turn off the lamp.

The darkness settles in.

I lie there staring at the ceiling, listening to the house. The faint hum of electricity. The distant tick of something cooling down. Sleep does not come right away. My mind is too full for that.

That’s when I remember Claire.

The realization hits with a small twist of guilt. I left again without telling her. Just vanished, the way I always seem to do when things get overwhelming. I reach for my phone on the charger and the screen lights up the room softly.

No new messages.

Of course not. It’s late. She’s probably asleep. Or busy. Or both.

I type out a quick apology anyway. Nothing dramatic. No explanations. Just a simple sorry for disappearing and a promise to explain later if she wants me to. I stare at it for a second, then hit send before I can overthink it.

I put the phone back on the nightstand, face down this time. I don’t expect a reply tonight. I don’t want to sit there waiting for one.

I turn onto my side and pull the covers up slightly, curling in on myself more than I usually do. The space behind me feels noticeable for a moment. Too quiet. Too empty.

I close my eyes and force myself to breathe evenly.

I do not need him, I tell myself one last time.

Eventually, exhaustion wins. My thoughts start to blur. The ache in my chest dulls. My body finally gives in to sleep, heavy and deep, pulling me under before I can fight it.

I fall asleep alone.